


You're My Sweetest Poison

by Miss_L



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Psychosis, mentions of electroshock (electroconvulsive therapy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_L/pseuds/Miss_L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wade has a bad psychotic episode and is committed to a mental institution. Peter is his only link to sanity - or is he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an idea by MissLunatic.
> 
> Very angst, much mentions of mental health problems, so please read the tags carefully.
> 
> I do not myself suffer from psychoses, but I know some people who did in the past. Still, if I have made some mistakes or inaccuracies, please do _not_ hesitate to point them out. It's a very grave and serious subject, and even thought this fic is written purely for its "entertainment value", the last thing I want is to get it wrong.

He was brought in like they were always brought in: kicking and screaming. Pleading. Threatening. Bargaining. Persuading. Obviously, none of it was working. Except the violence – that would put the man right into a straightjacket, shackled to the bed in a solitary room. “To come to his senses.” Whatever that meant. 

Before he was overpowered by the orderlies and led away, Wade broke away and ran back to Peter, falling to his knees in front of the younger man, sobbing. 

“Peter, Peter, I'm so, so sorry. Please, I… I will get better, for you – I promise.” 

He finally dared look up when his lover put a soothing hand on his burning skin. The web-head smiled through the tears that were forming in his eyes and stroked Wade’s brow softly. His one black eye was glaring at the merc accusingly, reminding Wade what he had done, and he hung his head again.

“It’s okay,” Peter whispered, tears creeping into his voice now. “It’s not your fault. You didn't know what you were doing. You’ll get better here and then you’ll come home.”

What from anybody else would sound like sweet nothings, came out of the young man’s mouth like a solid promise. Wade had to believe him, and trust the doctors. He _would_ get better and he _would_ go home. Eventually. The merc let himself be lead away obediently. He’d be a good boy. For Peter. Everything for Peter. Always.

***

It had been days. Maybe weeks. Or perhaps just a couple of hours. To be honest, between the medication and the shrinks poking and prodding at his brain with their carefully chosen words, Wade really didn't know how long he had been there. He’s been in mental hospitals before, but woah, they had some strong stuff here. Even the boxes were quiet, no doubt snorting the meds like cocaine. And the colours! Man, Wade’s cell looked like someone had eaten a barrel of Skittles and Technicolour-puked all over the place. It was so pretty… He could stare at the play of colours all day. There were even shades he hadn’t known existed. Beautiful.

Except when the nightmares happened. The nightmares were terrible. Not just the Workshop, but things he didn't remember. Things he couldn’t remember, because they were not his memories; at least, he didn't think. Dreary, grim streets with no colour whatsoever. Just endless grey-brown sludge. On the pavement, on the walls, in the sky. Everything bleak and hopeless. Wade woke up from those dreams screaming and sweating, lying panting in the dark until the orderlies came in and turned the lights on to cram more medication into him. He had protested at first, but the tranquilisers took away the bad dreams, so he now relished in the cold stab of the needle deep in his veins. 

***

Peter finally came to see him. The bruise on his face was fading – how long had it been, two, three days? Wade was high as shit off the medication, but he still asked to be restrained. No way he was going to risk hurting Peter again. Not his Peter. Peter looked happy to see him. That was good, because Wade was starting to lose hope. Without knowing how much time had passed, that is. But he didn't tell Peter that – he wanted Peter to think that all was well and Wade was making an effort. And he would. Seeing his boyfriend reminded him why he had to get better. Because home.

Most of what Peter was saying went right past Wade’s ears – had someone put cotton wool in them when he was sleeping? – but the parting “I love you” was clear enough. He mouthed the words after the young man, not entirely sure whether he had made a sound. But Peter would know. Peter always knew.

***

Times of day were blending together again. Wade was waiting for the next time Peter would visit – why was it taking so long? Did Peter no longer want to see him? He got restless, even thought about killing himself a couple of times for the hell of it, but the restraints on his arms and legs prevented him from doing that. He couldn’t even break his own neck decently – and he remembered doing that without much effort. So he just stayed where he was, in a padded cell, until one of the orderlies came to get him. He could finally stretch his legs again at the gym – under strict surveillance, of course. Nobody told him anything – how long he was supposed to stay here, when he would get better, when Peter would visit again. They just gave him more medication to keep him pliant. The only thing that worried Wade after that, was that parts of his dreams – the bad ones – started bleeding into wakefulness. Sometimes, his surroundings seemed just that little bit more bleak and washed-out. He would close his eyes really tight then, and plug his ears, like he had done when he was a child and heard his parents fight, and when he opened them, everything would be back to its cheery – albeit white and sterile – self.

***

Peter. Peter hadn’t been in a while. Wade remembered seeing him twice since he was committed. He remembered clearly, because the second time, the bruise on Peter’s face was entirely gone. But again, Wade hadn’t been able to hear a word the other man was saying, and he had looked a bit… See-through. Wade told him he should eat more and look after himself better while the merc wasn't there to care for him, but Peter had just smiled ruefully and stroked his cheek with cool fingers, running his hand over the restraints – Wade still insisted on wearing a straightjacket around Peter. The young man’s kiss on his forehead was tender, making Wade close his eyes in bliss and melt against Peter’s lips. Then he went home again, a small limp in his gait – probably a bad run-in with some thug he hadn’t told Wade about. Or maybe he had – damn cotton wool around his brains!

***

The doctors were so funny. They were trying to talk to Wade again, but he pretended not to hear them. It was mostly nonsense anyway. Something about psychoses and made-up worlds. He knew that – he was the crazy psychotic Merc-With-the-Mouth, for fuck’s sake! Of course he was insane. It was his trademark. But then Peter came again, and the look on his face was sad. Wade decided to cooperate after that – be a good boy, but only for Peter. Of course. Anything for Peter. Peter Parker, Spider-Man, _his_ boyfriend. He could see Peter’s satisfied smile in his mind when the boy would hear about his progress. He paid more attention to the shrinks after – or at least pretended to.

***

Peter didn't come for a while. Wade knew it was because he was disappointed that Wade wasn't doing his best – but he tried, he really really tried. He went to the group meetings, took his pills and didn't make a fuss about electroshock – even though it was highly unpleasant. He missed Peter a lot, but didn't like to talk about his boyfriend to others – he preferred to keep his thoughts and memories of Peter his little secret, his little butterfly in a box, to be taken out and gazed upon in the dark of the night, with only some moonlight to shine on the beauty.

***

Peter finally came to visit again. Wade was getting better with times of day (there was dessert in the evenings), but he still couldn’t say what day of the week it was, or what month. He didn't berate Peter for leaving him alone for so long – this was all his fault, and he would carry the consequences. But Peter looked so sad, and even thinner than before, Wade had to keep himself in check not to burst out crying. Peter’s touches on his face were lighter than ever, almost non-existent, barely breaking through the constant thrum of cancer – something that had already diminished thanks to the meds. He wanted to ask Peter to stay a while, but he couldn’t get his tongue to cooperate when he saw tears in the boy’s eyes. _He,_ Wade had done that, but Peter was a brave boy – he smiled.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered – Wade could finally hear! But nothing else came and the web-head walked out of the door again, leaving him behind. Until the next time, he knew. Peter would come. Peter always came. 

***

But Peter didn't come. Wade had found a good way to count the days – every night, before lights out, he would carve a little tally mark on the wall near his bed with a little pebble he had found outside and hidden under the mattress. Every morning, he would count the tally marks and repeat the number to himself until he remembered it. He had just carved his seventh tally mark – he recounted them again to be sure. 

“Lights out!”

Wade lay down on the bed and felt tears stream over his face. Why hadn’t Peter come back yet to see him? Why did he keep punishing Wade for what he had done? He was trying so hard, and all for him, for Peter. Suddenly, he realised with a shock he no longer remembered what colour his boyfriend’s eyes were. _No! No, no, no!_ He strained to think, tried to remember, anything, but nothing came to mind. He couldn’t even envision Peter’s face – everything blurred together. He would try again in the morning, he thought as bitter tears followed the ridges of his scars and soaked his pillow.

***

Day 10. No Peter. Wade didn't eat and refused to talk to the doctors. He did take his pills after some hard-handed persuasion.

***

Day 15 or 16 – Wade thought he had forgotten a tally somewhere. Still no sign of him. He threw a tantrum. There were orderlies, blood, and solitary.

***

Day 20 or 22. Perhaps 23. Someone was coming. He knew it. But nobody did. He was force-fed and electroshocked. Possibly twice. 

***

Wade had stopped tallying. He stopped caring. Nobody was coming for him. He was alone. Everything around him looked grey and dreary. Maybe his eye-sight was going.

“Mister Wilson?” the doctor tried to get his attention, but Wade turned away on his chair, rocking slightly, trying to keep what was left of his hope inside him. He couldn’t let it spill. He hadn’t noticed that he was muttering out loud to himself until the other man asked him about it.

“Who is coming, Mister Wilson?”

“Nobody,” he growled, turning the other way when the doctor got up to look him in the face. “Nobody is coming.”

“But you said ‘he is coming’, Mister Wilson,” the shrink coaxed. Wade looked up sharply at him and the man sat down again, retaining eye-contact. “Who is _he?”_

 _Might as well say._ “It doesn't matter. I don’t…” The realisation hit him like a tonne of bricks. “I don’t remember.” His lashless eyes widened in shock and grief. _I don’t remember!_

There were more elderlies and more solitary. There were also needles this time.

***

Some day. Probably morning – there hadn’t been any dessert. 

“Now, Mister Wilson, in your own words. But only if you believe that what I've told you is true.”

He nodded, never looking up. His ears were working – why were his ears always working around the wrong people? His butt itched, but they had kept the straightjacket on, so Wade just wiggled on the chair until the itch was gone. The doctor was waiting for him to settle.

“What’s your name?”

“Wade Wilson.”

“When were you born?”

“1984.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am 30 years old.”

“Good. Now, tell me, in your own time, what happened to your skin?”

It hurt, but he had to be good. Wade no longer remembered why, but it was important then, so it should still be important now.

“I was in a fire,” he answered flatly. “It was a traumatic experience and I lost my family.”

“What happened then?”

Wade looked away. The doctor waited patiently. The silence was stretching endlessly.

“Mister Wilson?”

“I… I couldn’t accept what had happened and… And…”

“Yes? I need to hear you say it, Mister Wilson. Only through acceptance of what has happened can you ever hope to regain your sanity. Please?”

Wade sniffed sarcastically and licked his chapped lips. He levelled the shrink. _Aw, to hell with it._

“I invented an identity to deal with trauma. Deadpool, a mercenary. Witty, crazy and deadly.”

“But..?”

“He’s not real. Deadpool never existed, I am not immortal and if I kill myself, I _will_ die. Happy now?”

The doctor looked content, but Wade wasn't off the hook yet.

“And your… Boxes, as you call them? Do you still communicate with them?”

“No. I miss them, thought,” Wade smiled wryly.

The doctor allowed himself a little smile. “It’s better like this, I promise you.”

Wade nodded. Surely, the doctors knew better what was the matter with him and how to make him better?

“And this… Friend of yours? Spider-Man, aka Peter?”

That hurt. Right in his heart. But he – Peter – hadn’t come. Nobody came. And nobody ever would again. Wade felt his eyelids droop and the light drain from his eyes.

“He doesn't exist.” 

He had said it quietly, but with conviction. The shrink was satisfied. Wade had been a good boy. They would surely let him out now and he would go… Where? Home? He hardly remembered what “home” was like, but it had to be good, right? _Right…?_


	2. Chapter 2

Peter limped into the building, leaning heavily on his crutches. The doctors had wanted to keep him for observation, but he told them exactly where they could go. It was bad enough that he had gotten in such a bad fight, he spent a month in a coma, just when his boyfriend needed him the most! He walked over to the reception and smiled at the nurse. He remembered her – at least his memories were still intact. She smiled back, then looked at her screen and the corners of her mouth dropped. She called the doctor over and made him check the results.

“You are Wade Wilson’s next of kin?” the medic asked.

“Yes.”

Peter’s heart froze in his chest. Why? What had happened? Could… Could Wade have found a way to die permanently? Surely, that wouldn't have been possible here, when it wasn't possible outside? The doctor motioned for him to follow. Peter thud-thudded along, worry and anxiety taking over every fibre of his body. He was lead into the common room. Most patients were either doped out of their mind and drooling on the couch, or shuffling along aimlessly – this _was_ the closed ward. Peter spotted the bald, scarred head over by the window and breathed out in relief. _Not dead! Yay!_ He almost tripped over his bad ankle in his hurry to run towards Wade, but the doctor stopped him with a soft hand on his shoulder. His expression was-

“What? What is it?” Peter asked as quietly as he could – heads were already turning slowly towards them.

The medic pulled up a chair for Peter and sent one of the patients wandering the other way, providing some relative privacy for them both. He bowed towards the young man.

“He’s gone, Mister Parker. He’s been like this since last week, and nobody has been able to reach him. No medication or ECT does the trick, and… I'm afraid there is very little hope he will ever come back to us. I am so sorry, sir. I assure you, we have done everything we could…”

What? What was he talking about? Wade was right there, he hadn’t gone anywhere! Surely, he just still couldn’t hear Peter because the medication did things to his hearing system? Peter got up on shaky legs, forgetting his crutches, forgetting the doctor’s hand that was now supporting his elbow. He needed to look Wade in the eye, to hear his booming and never-quite-serious voice. It would all be alright after that… He limped towards the thin-looking man, still staring out of the window, and walked around the chair until he was facing his boyfriend. 

_No._ Before he realised what was happening, Peter’s knees connected with the floor. Hard. Probably bloody. He didn't care. He put his shaking hands on the blank face in front of him and rubbed his thumbs over uneven cheeks. Nothing. He pulled Wade’s head forward softly, bringing their eyes level. The spark had gone out. He might as well be staring into two black pools of water. The inhabitants had moved and the house was vacant. Wade would never come home again. Wade would never _be_ “home” again. Peter slung his arms around the empty shell and wept.


End file.
